


To Return to You

by Avelera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dimension Travel, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Genderbending, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9296414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: Irene has never made a secret of her identity. Had she born in this universe instead of merely transferred here by accident, her name might have been Sherlock.It seems Jane Moriarty's explosion sent Irene Holmes to a parallel dimension, where there is a male version of everyone she knows, including her lover Joan Watson. In order to find a way home she will need resources, protection, and the wealth of a small nation. A retelling of "A Scandal in Belgravia" in which SHERlocked is simply a confession of who she really is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sansael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sansael/gifts).



> I wrote this fic way back when a Scandal in Belgravia first aired, based on my utter conviction that our dear writers who also happen to write Doctor Who had a more sensible, if sci-fi reason for Irene claiming she is SHERlocked. To me this always seemed the only obvious answer. I am curious to see if others explore this explanation, I've yet to see it anywhere else.
> 
> Special thanks to Sansael for rekindling my interest in this piece!

Pale eyes fluttered, scrunched shut, and opened blinking in the winter sunlight, so different from the dim fluorescents of the pool. Light penetrated icy eyes like a spike to the brain, and the pain of an oncoming mother-of-headaches beat at the edge of consciousness. 

A whimper turned into a moan, and long white fingers came up to block the light, then scrape upward through black curls. A violinist’s fingers, fingers that until only a moment ago had clutched the trigger of the pistol, held steady as they took aim at the vest near Moriarty’s feet. A flicker of consternation across that jester’s smile, a tiny victory. Watson’s breathing deepened, grew ragged, as fear poured adrenaline into the system. The tiny nod. The lack of options. Something to break the deadlock.

The long fingers fell away, dragged down pale skin, brushed a dark strand of hair away from the face. The world’s only consulting detective stared upward, pushing past the mounting headache as the sounds and sensations of the world streamed in, demanding to be analyzed. Distant, congested traffic, an ambulance tone - a  _London_  ambulance, so distinct from those on the Continent. The sun was not yet above the trees. The wet cold of morning frost melted against a warm body. The sound of water could be heard above the traffic. It was cold, almost freezing, just above two degrees. Breath frosted in the air in ghostly clouds.

The first week of March, half-past eight, Regent’s Park. Likely in the southwest corner if the pond and the distinctive, noise-dampening asphalt were any indication. There was only one problem.

March was three months prior. Which meant either nine months had passed, or three had wound back. For the moment assume the former. 

 

**Hypothesis A: Nine months have passed.**

**Extent Questions: Why so long? Why no memory of passing time?**

**Solution 1. Senses are confused, deduction of time faulty – dismissed.**

**Solution 2. Drugged since pool incident, held captive by Moriarty, released in a larger game – error. Needs more data.**

**Solution 3. Long term incapacitation or coma from the explosion. Error. Disqualifier found – why the park?**

 

 **Error 2– Faint pressure at the wrists, feet, waist, shoulders. Items accounted for: buttoned shirt and suit, shoes. Bespoke. Undamaged? Unknown….Revision based on heat signature: items intact, but wet. Conclusion: clothing undamaged, unchanged, familiar. Scent familiar = no time in storage, items were taken from 221B within the last 24 hours. Margin for error <1%.**  
****

**Hypothesis B: Traveled three months into the past.**

**Error – impossible.**

**Override code – all evidence must be considered.**

**Analysis revision – Improbable.**

**Needs more data.**

**Priority 1: Ascertain the date.**

But as willling as the mind may be, shooting like a comet across the probabilities and scenarios in a matter of milliseconds, the body was not yet able to keep up. A weak groan and the long limbs shifted, failed to muster themselves. 

**Priority 1 - Revised: Stand. Up.**

With a muffled growl and an elbow crunching into the frozen grass, Holmes pushed upwards. The world spun and blackness sucked at the corners, threatening another tumble into unconsciousness. The lean body swayed then tensed at the sound of muffled steps on the grass. Measured, purposeful, no attempt to mask themselves and the unconscious heel-toe of long patrols and short sprints. A police officer, with any luck not a total idiot. 

“Oy! Are you all right over there?” the policeman said, drawing along side and placing a steadying hand on Holmes’ upper arm. “Do you need help?”  


“I’m…” Another wave of nausea. “Yes. No! I need to see Lestrade. There’s a mobile in my jacket pocket, get the detective here immediately. It’s an emergency. Or a murder, whichever is quicker.” 

“There’s been a murder?” exclaimed policeman.

Pale eyes rolled in exasperation, and closed as the world spun again. “No, you imbecile,” the words were slow, with the exaggerated patience of one speaking to a particularly frustrating child. “I need Lestrade here. Now, and by any means necessary. Tell the good detective it’s Holmes.”

The policeman started and fumbled inside the coat, blushing as he pulled the mobile free. “Like that consulting detective that’s been in the papers? Didn’t know he had a sister. What did you say your name was?”

Holmes’ eyes snapped open, staring wide-eyed at the policeman’s guileless face. New to the force, late-twenties, embarrassed to be pawing inside a lady’s suit jacket, but not enough so to stop himself from brushing the back of his hand ever-so-accidentally against the curve of breasts. “Irene Holmes. Surely you’ve heard of me?”

The policeman took the phone in hand, his eyes darting upwards then down, recalling a sight or sound, summoning a memory, rather than fabricating a lie. “Can’t say that I have, ma’am. But that Holmes and Watson duo have been in the papers lately. I read his blog, well, not his blog the other bloke’s, the one who writes the cases. It's quite good. Are you related?”

The world spun, and this time not from nausea. This data was too new, too unexpected, to be properly analyzed, and the body was too weakened by the explosion to handle this shock.

 

**Cognitive override enabled.**

**Priority 1. Prevent loss of consciousness.**

**Solution 1. Visit early priorities. 90% allocation resource to analyzing new data. 10% to social interaction, equilibrium.**

**Proceed with data acquisition – if imprisonment (and impersonation? Error - Why male?) or time travel.**

 

“What is the date today?” Irene said. 

“What? It’s Monday, March 5th.”

“What. _Year_?” she added, through teeth clenched as much in fear as annoyance.

“The year? 2010, ma’am. Look, I think I should take you in to the station, if you want to see Lestrade he’ll be there too. You’ll be all right. Anyway, your mobile doesn’t have any service.”

Irene reeled. Grace Lestrade? A man? Nearly as shocking as having no service in the middle of London. She snatched the mobile out of the policeman’s hand. No service, indeed. The possibilities had neatly lined up in her head and clamored to take her attention away from the imbecile. “No, not drunk, obviously. The lack of odor alone would have been enough for a child to deduce,” she muttered. “And not the station, not now. Margaret, I need to talk to Margaret. But no, she wouldn’t be Margaret would she? Some other name, old-fashioned, a family name? Oh this is too preposterous.” She looked back to the officer, “Tell me, is George the Seventh the current king of England?”

The officer gaped, “Are you drunk? It’s Elizabeth, the second, there was no seventh George. Ma’am, really, I think you should come with me to the station. We can get you to a doctor.” His body language changed dramatically, shifting to the back foot, hands coming up and open. He had clearly decided that she was insane. Wonderful.

“You have a patrol car? I need you to take me to Charing Cross,” the policeman eyed her, reluctance in every line of his body, “Oh for Heaven’s sake, can’t you see I’ve been robbed?Blunt force trauma to the head explains my disorientation, it’s a miracle they didn’t take my mobile. My si- my brother works near Charing Cross, he can help me. Now are you going to bring me there or are you going to make a traumatized woman take the tube?” Her money would be no good here. She wasn’t going to get far with a non-existent George VII grimacing on the face of her pound notes. 

“Yes, ma’am, of course ma’am. Happy to help,” stuttered the officer, moving towards his car, likely before what brain he had could catch up. She had perhaps five minutes before he remembered his post, and how many regulations he was breaking by leaving it with a strange woman. With luck they would be far enough towards their destination to prevent him from turning around. 

The nausea was beginning to fade, but other aches and pains were beginning to throb in protest as they crossed the park to where the patrol car waited. The skin of her face and hands was tender, as if they had brushed extreme heat, but as far as she could tell her eyebrows were intact. So the contact must have been brief, milliseconds. Moriarty’s parcel, and the ensuing explosion had only caused light damage before transporting her here. Wherever _here_ was. 

_Joan_. Her heart gave an unfamiliar twist at the thought of her lover, and she stumbled, the policeman helping her recover and making apologies that she barely heard over the sudden roar of fear that set her nerves alight. Joan pulling back the puffy winter coat to reveal the packages of Moriarty’s chemical bombs, what they had only thought was Semtex, and the blinking lights of the sniper’s laser. 

She should have been able to push the emotion way, to prevent that rising tide of panic shot through with desperation. But Joan had begun to break down those barriers, and Moriarty had known with a glance that Irene Holmes, the infamous detective, was not quite so heartless as her reputation claimed. And if she was here, then Joan and Moriarty might still be there. Her breath caught, shortened, black spots dancing in her vision…

 

**Faulty process – automatic protocol engaged – rebooting.**

**Emotional response – suspended**. 

**Data point – Joan Watson: experienced soldier. Doctor. Above-average intelligence.**

**Conclusion: well-equipped to survive encounter. Addendum: 50% chance explosion offered opportunity for escape. 99% chance of immediate police response to the explosion. Joan survival probability – above 60%.**

**Error – falsified data. Probability of survival closer to 15%--**

**Emergency override. Data stands. Survival probability 60% or above.**

 

She cut the process short. At certain times data must be manipulated to maintain control over involuntary functions. Panic. The weakening of the knees, rising heart rate, the cold sweat. For now they had to be suspended and ignored, while she focused on the current situation, this mirror world with its blasted lack of mobile reception and male imposter with her surname and profession. 

Charing Cross was the closest station to the Royal Society Club, which in turn was less than a block to its sister-society, the Aspasia Club, one of the oldest and most venerable women’s clubs in London. Of course Margaret was a member. Or at least it had been in Irene’s dimension. If there was no parallel society in this universe then she would be forced to make a nuisance of herself in front of the CCTV cameras until Margaret came to shut her up. This was of course assuming that there was a Holmes in the British Government just as there was a Lestrade in the force. 

Her pale eyes scanned the streets as they passed the Royal Society and a quirked the corner of her lips at the sight of the brass placard, just where it should be. The first thing to go right the whole blasted day. “Stop the car,” she snapped, exiting before the policeman could protest and without a backwards glance. He shouted something behind her but she was already ringing the bell. 

The faint static of an open connection was the only indication that there was an ear on the other end. “I’m here for Holmes. This is an emergency, protocol Adler.”

The line went silent and she found herself staring intently at the buzzer, willing this world’s Margaret to have created the same safe-word as her own had. Their father’s bachelor name, Adler, before he had married their mother Violet Holmes and taken her surname. The silence stretched.

Static. A mumble on the other end, a harsh buzz and a soft click as the door was unlocked. Irene pushed it open without hesitation, shoes clicking against the marble as she strode down the hallway to the reading room.

She pursed her lips at the sight of doddering inhabitants of the Aspasia Club, or rather the Diogenes Club as the placard said, lounging in antique armchairs, sucking at their pipes. All silent, all male, confirming her budding hypothesis. It would be a male Margaret Holmes that greeted her here, of that Irene was now certain. And yet it seemed certain rules were universal. What had set the Aspasia Club apart from all other women’s clubs of its status was the silence required in its charter. There would be no gossip there, not amongst the most powerful women in the land. That could be had elsewhere, in the parlors and bridge tables of the Empire. The Aspasia Club, and its equivalent, were held to a higher standard.

Not a flicker of notice was granted her from the decrepit, armchair-bound graveyard of power. She opened her mouth, moments away from shattering the calm with a word, when a butler appeared at her elbow, one gloved hand held to his lips, and opened a door at the corner of the room for her with a small inclination of the head. “I presume you are one of Mr. Holmes’ assistants. He is waiting for you in the smoking room.” Her steps became more sure as she recognized the layout, striding ahead of the butler to rap her knuckles sharply against the door in question.

“Come in,” came a languid voice from within. Different gender, tone, and depth but oh that infuriating arrogance remained the same. Her teeth ground together as she turned the brass handle, her eyes falling upon a fair-haired man sitting at a desk, one leg slung over the other, in the acting of placing a mobile in his pocket. 

 

**Pale skin – indoor worker, bespoke suit - wealthy, recent diet - failed** ( _hah!_ ) **, just came back from Buckingham in a private car, judging by the shoes and trouser leg. An unknown incident brought him there – no, it was international, economic, a last minute policy change and accompanying damage control- but the matter is resolved, according to the celebratory biscuit.**

 

Irene smirked. Oh yes, this was her sister. No doubt there would be a pretty young lady trotting around with a mobile, a mirror of the clean-cut and interchangeable young men who kept Margaret’s schedule and took care of the assassinations if the elder Holmes sister was too busy elsewhere. 

Ah, but he was watching her too! His eyes flickering to her shoes, clothes, face, no doubt taking in the bedraggled state of her hair, the nearly invisible grass stains, the wrinkle in her jacket for her mobile (having certainly deduced the Blackberry's make and model), and perhaps catching the scent of patrol vehicle and the policeman’s cheap deodorant. 

He arched a single eyebrow. “It appears that we need to talk. Though I must confess, how you got _here_  is an utter mystery to me. And my name is Mycroft, as you appeared to be wondering.” He waved the butler away and the man scurried out, closing the door noiselessly behind him, and Mycroft gestured for Irene to sit. “You are unsurprised by my deduction. Am I to presume that where you come from you consider yourself the world’s only consulting detective?”

“Among other things,” she said with a faint smile. In a way it was a relief to speak with another on her level, annoying as said other might be. It got rid of all the unnecessary dithering and small talk, the back-and-forth of disbelief at her situation. Not that she would ever admit this to her sister, or brother as it now happened. 

The second eyebrow rose, “I might have guessed by the cut of your blouse and your perfume, but it is rather surprising, considering.”

“I take it my counterpart here is…inexperienced?”

“Entirely, as far as I know,” said Mycroft. Which of course meant very little, as far as Irene was concerned. 

“And his name? Another from mother’s…no, it would be father’s side. Mycroft was one of those antique Holmesian names, like Margaret and Irene.”

“Margaret? Am I…?” 

“Entirely the same, as far as I know,” she said. 

“Fascinating,” Mycroft said steepling his fingertips and pressing them to his lips. His eyes narrowed as he studied her more closely, the second pass of deduction surely doubling his knowledge. She had already deduced that he was single just like his counterpart, living alone in the Holmes townhouse, the family tailor available to both of them in this world as he was unsurprised by the cut and quality of her suit. The suit she had worn to meet Moriarty. “There was some time travel involved as well, clear from your coloring. How long?”

“Three months, it was late spring.” 

And then he spoke one word that sent the chill of fear like ice water down her back. 

“Moriarty?”

“Yes. How far has it gone?”

“My brother and the good doctor have heard only rumors. A name whispered in the shadows. No doubt it will go further.”

“Much further, and soon,” she said, fixing him with her piercing gaze.

“Will you help? After all, this is hardly the time or place to continue our petty squabble, and your foreknowledge could prove extremely valuable,” said Mycroft. Irene went still as Mycroft spoke her realization nearly as she thought it. “For, as you are no doubt realizing, you are not my brother, despite the similarities, and Holmes family affection already runs rather thin. While I have no doubt that you would survive…and even thrive, no matter where you land in the world, the first weeks would be trying. In particular due to the fact that London already has a consulting detective, and he does not take kindly to poaching.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” she said. “Or rather, I don’t have to. It seems I have no choice but to help you, or otherwise find somewhere beyond your reach to prevent your sabotage.”

“An endeavor in which I wish you the best of luck, as you will need it,” said Mycroft. Irene’s lips thinned with irritation as her mind raced. “I will do what I can, you know,” said Mycroft. “To help you go home. I have considerable resources, and Lord knows this world does not need _two_ Sherlock Holmes mucking about.” 

“Mmm. So that’s his name. Sherlock,” she said, tasting the name on her tongue. Sherlock Holmes. It had a certain something, an echo of familiarity, as if striking a harmonizing note in her soul. A pretty conceit, if absurd. 

“Shall we get to it then?” said Mycroft, adjusting his seat and leaning forward. “I will alert my assistant that you will need your own quarters, ID papers, a bank account and other such little necessities. You are no doubt exhausted from your ordeal and deserve a chance to rest. I trust Moriarty has no plans for this evening?”

“None that you need know of,” said Irene archly, “You must realize if I reveal too much of my knowledge of future events, Moriarity will take note and alter his plans. Should that happen, my knowledge and value are invalidated, and I will be no more forearmed than this world’s consulting detective. Less, in fact, as he is at least familiar with this world’s peculiarities.”

“Coventry again,” muttered Mycroft, “We will have to wait for the proper moment. At least I can trust you to choose that moment well.”  


“Oh?” said Irene blandly. “Such faith in one you have just met. And how is that, exactly?”

“John Watson. You may risk your other self, and even me, but you will not risk him.”

“What sentimental nonsense. This world’s Watson means nothing to me. My involvement is based entirely on your ability to aid my return home,” she said, taking a moment to examine her nails. There was a small patch of dry skin from where she had handled the gun, and the distinctive Regent Park dirt staining her cuticles. She must have been an open book to this "Mycroft". 

“Then it shouldn’t matter that I’m forbidding you all contact with Sherlock, John, or any other denizens of 221B Baker Street while you work with me,” a small part of her consciousness noted the disappointment that welled inside her with a certain detachment. It should not matter, 221B was merely a place, and those who lived there had no true connection to her. And yet the disappointment remained. “At least, not until the proper time. With any luck that time will be never, as you will swiftly find a way home, after sharing with us all you know of Moriarty’s activities.”

“You have taken this all rather well, my dear brother, I’m surprised,” Irene remarked.

“Well, as our father…your mother, I imagine, used to say,” Irene recited it with him in perfect unison, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true.” Mycroft lips twisted in a humorless parody of a smile, “Indeed. And that, sister-mine, is why I recognized you the moment you walked in through that door. No actor could be so well trained, not even should they know every detail of our lives. Though I imagine Sherlock would have some difficulty reading you. He has always had a peculiar blind spot for himself.”

_Yes, of course_ , she thought. _If I met this Sherlock, and I didn’t know he was from another world, he would seem utterly blank. Like looking into a mirror._

“Well, if that is settled, you will allow me to put the arrangements in order. It won’t take long,” said Mycroft, and took out his mobile phone. After a minute of tapping and the small “ _plink_ ” of a sent text message, he turned back to Irene. “There’s a fully furnished flat ready for you in South Ken. You will find all the necessities in place, as well as some fresh clothes to hold you over until the tailor has finished, which should be by tomorrow evening at latest. A car is waiting outside for whenever you wish to go, and the driver has a cash card for you, as well as your basic identification papers. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait another week for the rest of the documentation, the false background and other such records. The red tape has become such a bother these days, so do wait a bit before you get yourself arrested.”

Irene nodded absently, mind already racing ahead, past her contingency plans and safeguards in the likely event of Mycroft’s betrayal. She would not stay dependent on him for long, a week maximum if she could help it, before she was independently wealthy and in the possession of a new identity and premises.

“That will do, for now,” she said, extending her hand. Mycroft took in his, giving it a firm shake that said **concerned, unintimidating, TRUST ME**. She smiled at the thought. “It’s been a pleasure, Mycroft Holmes. I trust we’ll be in touch?”

“I had hoped so. There’s a restaurant near the flat called Launceston Place. Rather modest, but I thought you mighn’t want to travel far this evening and they have a private room reserved for us. Will six o’clock do?”

“Do I have any choice in the matter?” said Irene.

“This is merely dinner, Miss Holmes, not a hostage situation. If you are anything like my brother it will be impossible to make you do anything you don’t want to. The offer stands, and while I know nothing about your relationship with your sister, might it not make sense to spend some time together before deciding we hate one another?”

“I’ll think on it,” said Irene, rising from her seat. The look Mycroft gave her was frank, unimpressed, and gave her a momentary sense of vertigo to see such a patented Margaret expression on a man’s face. He stepped around her and opened the door, but stopped her with a hand on the shoulder just before she stepped through. 

“I promise you, this is nearly as disorienting for me as it must be for you. But I am not your enemy, Miss Holmes,” he said.

Irene glanced at his face, being sure to visibly study him. **Last night spent working at a desk. Plagued by a toothache, may need a root canal soon. Earnest. Brotherly. An excellent actor**. “We shall see, Mr. Holmes,” said Irene, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

 The flat was across from the park, perhaps the love nest of one of the nobility, squirreled away in the wealthiest corner of London. She had taken note of the Launceston Place only a block from the flat as they pulled up, the driver scurrying to open the door for her and placing the keys and cash card in her hand with a tip of his hat. “Will that be all, Miss Smith?” 

Irene glanced at the card face and sure enough “Sarah Smith” decorated the black card. Hardly original, might as well have just called her Jane Doe. She slipped the card into her pocket. “That will be all,” she said, turning to the door. There was an elevator at the back of the landing, somewhat unusual for such old buildings, but with her injuries she welcomed it as it took her to the fourth floor, opening directly into the flat. 

The flat in question was furnished in a manner that could only be described as _sumptuous_ , with brocaded silk curtains and a Marie XVI dining set. She gave it only a cursory glance as she moved in a straight line towards the bedroom and collapsed in the enormous bed, barely managing to kick off her shoes before conceding to exhaustion.

_'This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Irene?'_

_'Joan…'_

_'What… would you like me… to make her say… next?'_

_A high-pitch, sing-song voice as Janie, Mark Hooper’s girlfriend, the lesbian, strode out to the edge of the pool.  Her short, dark hair was no longer spiked, and her boyish loose jeans and figure-hiding t-shirt had been replaced by a smartly cut business suit. Victor Westwood, the winter collection 2010, expertly tailored. Her black eyes glinted in the fluorescent lights of the pool._

_'Jane Moriarty…Hi...'_

_'Oh, that! The Collider plans…Bo-ring! What did you think I had stuffed in those vests, Irene? Semtex? I’ve got all I need for the device in there, right under your nose. Very unstable though, wouldn’t want it to get shot at, would we? No idea what would happen! I love quantum mechanics, it’s a hobby of mine.'_

_'Ciao, Irene Holmes.'_

_'Catch you later.'_

_'No you won’t!'_

_'I suppose the secret’s out now, Irene.'_ _Joan’s eyes glimmering with humor. 'You, ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. We won’t be able to cover it up now.'_

_'Probably my answer has already crossed yours.'_

_A bluff, it had to be. The vest exploding in a flash of gold, the heat like the heart of the sun as it blasted towards Irene’s face. Joan was screaming her name and she had only a second to cherish the look of shock on Moriarty’s face before…_

 

Irene jerked awake, bathed in sweat beneath a tangle of sheets and comforters, her heart thundering in her ears. Only a dream, the brain’s way of making sense of a day's trauma, as it sorted through the sounds and images, remembering, categorizing. An ordinary function. It wasn’t real.

It shouldn’t make her heart twist in her chest.

Irene tossed the blankets aside and stood. It was already dark, just after four. She had slept the day away. Mycroft would be expecting her in a couple of hours, and she toyed with the idea of standing him up, but dismissed it. There would be plenty of time later to spar with her mirror-sibling, but now she needed information. She had no illusions that the differences between her world and this one extended beyond the simple accident of her sex. Even the smallest change would have uncounted ripple effects across the world. Now awake, she took further stock of her surroundings, in particular the walnut desk by the window and the slim laptop that sat atop it. Beside the laptop was a stack of newspapers and a university textbook, a history of the world. She would have time for that later, first a shower.

Despite the antique nature of the furniture, the bathroom was up to date, various sponges and a stunning array of shampoos and soaps lining the side of a huge claw-footed tub. A standalone glass shower was tucked away in the corner and she selected the most likely soaps before stripping and releasing her hair from its bun. The hot water sluiced away the sweat of her nightmare, the grass of the park, and drove away the last of the chill from her bones and she tilted her head back, hair trailing down her back as the water sprinkled her face. 

 

_“Joan, you must come in here, at once!” she shouted over the running water. The door to the bathroom clicked open and Joan appeared, wearing her usual beige jumper and slacks, short blonde hair tucked back behind her ear. The other woman stopped, gaped at the sight of Irene in all her glory, the shower curtain open, the water pouring down pale skin, across her shoulders and between her breasts._

_“Irene, what in the world…”_

_“What do you see, Joan?”_

_“Besides you, naked in the shower?” Joan said in a strangled voice._

_“Yes of course besides me. Joan, look at my face.”_

_“Ah! I’m sorry, I wasn’t… I’m not…”_

_“Gay, yes, I know. Just as I know your pupils certainly aren’t dilating and the flush in your cheeks is from the steam. We can have a long discussion about it later if you like, but for now look. At. My. Face. Do you see anything unusual?”_

_“It’s…wet?”_

_“And?”_

_“…I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”_

_“As ever you see but do not observe_. _You’ll recall that the victim was prone to depression characterized by fits of weeping, which prompted her to use waterproof mascara?”_

_“So she wouldn’t have to touch it up throughout the day, yes. The depression was listed as the cause of the suicide.”_

_“Except when they dragged the body from the Thames, her face was free of makeup. Now if it were indeed a suicide, the makeup would have still been there, as the water lacked the necessary solvents to dissolve the cosmetics. Which means?”_

_“…she removed her makeup before she died?”_

_“See, obvious. Call Lestrade, tell her it’s a murder and arrest the victim’s boyfriend.”_

_“Her boyfriend?”_

_“Of course. He drowned her in the tub and dumped the body in the Thames, I knew that from the start. All I needed was to verify the exact time of the murder, which was just after she had finished her bath but had not yet drained it.”_

_“But how did you know he drowned her in the tub?”_

_“From the first inspection of the body, and the post-mortem notes. The water in her lungs didn’t match the Thames and it carried traces of soap and product, but more importantly it had been warmed by a gas heater with a single pipe, very common in older buildings.”_

_“My god, their flat…”_

_“Pre-war, you heard the noise, all that banging when the boiler turned on and their neighbor complaining about cold showers. ”_

_“That’s brilliant! Really, really brilliant,” Joan said, her lips parted slightly in awe as she contemplated Holmes’ solution to the case._

_“It was hardly a difficult one, but it did have its moments,” said Irene, but even so could not entirely stop herself from preening at the praise. The smile faded from Joan’s face and she coughed awkwardly into her knuckles._

_“So I’ll just go…and, uh, call Lestrade while you finish your shower,” said Joan, edging towards the door._

_“Shower?” said Irene blankly. Joan’s flush deepened to a glorious sunset red. “Oh, unnecessary, it was only for the case. You don’t have any plans tonight, do you? Let’s have dinner,” she said, raising her eyes and looked at Joan from beneath her lashes. “I’m famished.”_

_“I…have a date,” Joan said with a startled wheeze._

_“Sam again?”_

_“No, Sam and I split up. It’s the librarian, Dennis. You remember him right?”_

_“The one with the spots?”_

_“Freckles,” Joan muttered._

_“Spots. Cancel it, he’s only seeing you while he waits for his fiancé to take him back,” said Irene._

_“Irene,” Joan groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Just once, can’t you…”_

_“Ooh!” Irene gave a little squeal, and jumping out of the shower onto the bath mat. “Hot water’s run out, could you pass me a towel?” She allowed herself a secret little smile as Joan fumbled, attempting to shield her eyes as she passed the towel. But before she could withdraw her hand, Irene seized her wrist. “So, dinner? Unless you would prefer to stay in?”_

_“No, no dinner is fine,” Joan sighed. “Now dry off and for Heaven’s sake, put some clothes on!” She slammed the door behind her, but not before Irene saw the exasperation turn to a fond smile as she cast one last glance over her shoulder._

 

Irene squeezed the water from her hair and wrapped it in a towel before exiting the bathroom in a puff of steam. The wardrobe was well stocked, only someone who shared Margaret’s insufferable snobbery for fine clothes would think that a tailored wardrobe was a necessary addition to the current set. She selected a black cashmere dress, adorned it with silver chain for a belt and a pair of suede high heeled boots. She set aside a gray woolen coat and blue scarf beside the door and returned to the bathroom to finish her hair and makeup. A natural look would do. This wasn’t a case, after all, and she doubted that Mycroft would respond well to seduction, if she were even able to bring herself to try with Margaret’s expressions dancing on her male twin’s face.

Irene turned to the window. The passing light and muffled cries of horns and brakes below were a distant hum, soothing even, so like her own London. Somewhere out there, Jane Moriarty’s double plotted to draw out the consulting detective. Somewhere a Holmes and a Watson were spending an evening together, while a Hudson puttered about and made tea (under protest, of course). 

Irene drew her arms around herself to ward off the chill that leaked in through the cracks around the window. And it was the chill, after all. It was impossible for the feeling of cold to come from within, just as it was impossible for a human to be truly made of glass. And so the sensation of being inches from breaking, from flying into a thousand tiny shards so far away from home was merely a fantasy conjured by the unscientific mind. She should be above such things.

Instead she held herself tighter, alone in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I am most interested in continuing this, but I admit I'm terribly curious to hear your thoughts in the meantime!
> 
> Please feel free to find me on Tumblr as well, where I am also "Avelera".


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